


And Crown Thy Good

by thelostcolony, TheMysticWolf36



Series: thcgardcn [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Non Linear Timeline, Platonic Cuddling, Tallboy? more like Coldboy, Team as Family, by team I mean Aides, the aides could form their own pop culture band just from being in this fic so much, this fic is literally all about the aides
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-04-13 22:19:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14122041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelostcolony/pseuds/thelostcolony, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMysticWolf36/pseuds/TheMysticWolf36
Summary: A series of oneshots about Alexander Hamilton, Benjamin Tallmadge, and the aides they worked with (and the subsequent situations they managed to get themselves into).Comprised of angst, whump, hurt/comfort, and gratuitous fluff.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HI EVERYONE SO this is the beginning of a very long line of oneshots that me and my writing partner Cassie are working on; they're centered around the Aides' relationship with Ben. There will be hurt, comfort, gratuitous amounts of whump, and fluff like you have never seen. Tags will be added as more characters are introduced. These oneshots go in no particular order and the timeline isn't linear.
> 
> That said, thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! Please leave me a comment or a kudos telling me what you thought, if you'd like to see anything specific next, and Cassie and I hope to see you next time!
> 
> P.S. Hit us up on tumblr at thcgardcn.tumblr.com to see updates, new fics, and meta~
> 
> -Ro

Yorktown is finally over.   
  
Ben rubs at his eyes, blearily staring down at the paperwork in front of him. The report is half written, somewhat sloppily; slanted handwriting curves against the page, leaving some lines of text uneven. He’ll have to redo it---just another battle to fight.   
  
Still, for all his exhaustion, for all he’ll have to rewrite this report.... relief pricks at him, sharp and vicious, like it no longer knows how to soothe. Still, even then---it’s relief, its tinge unmistakable.

Yorktown is over.   
  
The war, however, is not. Far from it. But it feels as if the battle they've been fighting is no longer uphill, like they've finally crested over the top and are now staring down at the steep descent---almost as steep as the climb. But still, still... downhill.   
  
Ben rubs at his eyes and glances at the candlestick. It's burning low, for how long he's been sitting here, but he can't sleep and he can't assuage the worry he feels, so paperwork is the next best thing by way of distraction. If he tried to sleep now, the Lord only knew what images his mind would conjure for him to ruminate over, all the men he’s seen struck down in this past week, all the boys crying out for their mothers. All the friends he had, fighting out there and doing the precise thing he’d sought to protect them from. They’ve all risked their lives, but never in such a physical manner, never so close to the action. None of them are built for fighting. Not like Ben has become.   
  
He itches to get up and move, but he knows where his feet will take him should he do so, and that---that…

That cannot happen.    
  
Ben cannot be seen around the medical tents---not without arousing suspicion. He can’t, no matter how much he longs to sit by Abe  _ (Abe, one of his oldest friends, who has lost so much in the name of ideals he can neither touch nor see; Abe, who wanted only to tend to his crop and be there for his family; Abe, who now lies dying, right this minute, in a tent surrounded by his wife and his son, the wife and son he may abandon yet and the fault lies only in Ben, Ben and his foolish, foolish demands, requests, pleads that he knew Abe could not deny him for Abe wouldn’t deny a friend anything) _ .  Not without putting that same friend in danger, again, like he always has.   
  
You ask too much of people, Anna told him once. Ben had told her that he knew. But now, looking back on it, he doesn't truly think he'd realized just how much, until now.

Until now.   
  
Ben shifts; rubs at his eyes for a third time. They ache fiercely, sting with the remainder of ash and smoke from the past week (the past years), and his head bows simply because he's too tired to hold it up. He's so tired.    
  
He can't imagine how his Ring feels---how his  _ friends  _ feel.

_ You ask too much of people. _

_ I know. _   
  
"Tallmadge," someone says suddenly, and Ben violently starts; his quill flies from his hand, his knees slam against the bottom of his desk; his body moves of its own accord, hands immediately jumping to find a weapon; the inkwell spills where it sits above his paper and Ben cringes as he watches it tip---   
__  
_ "Benjamin." _ __  
  
A hand clenches itself around his wrist, clamps down like a vice, and Ben's eyes roll wildly, follow the arm to a shoulder to a face to---   
  
Hamilton.   
  
"I---Ham?"   
  
Alexander's eyes are kind, the warmth from his hand seeping through Ben's uniform and warm the skin there. Ben hadn’t even known he was cold, but gooseflesh rises all the same at the sudden realization. 

The dimples in Hamilton’s cheeks appear as he smiles, welcomingly and, perhaps, a bit teasingly. "Had I known you would start like a lad late for class, I would have announced myself kinder," he says, and Ben's gaze is drawn to where Alexander is absently righting the inkpot with his other hand, caught before it could spill over Ben's report. "Truly, t'was a spectacular display of reflexes, Tallmadge."   
  
Ben blinks as he's released, rubbing at his eyes before he realizes what he's doing. He flushes deeply at the knowing look on Hamilton's face and forces his hands into his lap, though his eyes begin to itch something fierce. "I'm afraid even if you'd announced yourself, I would have started, I was so focused," Ben says, in what he hopes is a tone that's appropriately self-deprecating. He’s too tired to tell.   
  
Hamilton looks down at the report between them, eyes skimming the document even though he's doing so upside down. "Work, so late and after so long a battle? A victorious battle, no less? Even I'm taking time to celebrate."   
  
He says "celebrate" like it's synonymous with "grieve". It leaves a wretched taste in Ben's mouth.   
  
"Well, you can  _ afford  _ to 'celebrate', what with being His Excellency's favorite," Ben says lightly, and has to resist the urge to smile as Hamilton turns away to hide his sudden scowl. It's no secret how Hamilton resents General Washington's treatment of him---though Ben, for the life of him, can't imagine why. "Were you to know of my own position in His Excellency's graces, you wouldn't be so lenient with your celebrations."

Hamilton looks back at Ben just so Ben can see the roll of his eyes. It's so exaggerated that Ben can't help but crack a smile. "His Excellency would prefer me to wake in the mornings and dine with him, and then proceed to ride with him chatting about farming and the weather, and then to follow at his heels inquiring about all the finer points of the qualities that he favors in a child, and then would like me to adjust myself accordingly. _Personally_ , I find paperwork to be less burdensome.”  
  
Ben chuckles, and Hamilton smiles again, the amusement in his eyes finally reaching his mouth. "I don't know,” Ben muses. “If His Excellency is a father, then perhaps Congress is the grandfather we all beg for treats."  
  
"Mm, perhaps," Hamilton agrees. "Or Congress is the grandmother who adores her grandchildren when they do what she wishes, promises reward, and blames her sons when she has nothing to give to the grandchildren as promised."  
  
The amusement leaves the room so abruptly that Ben looks down, unable to hold Hamilton’s gaze. Hamilton himself sighs and plops onto the corner of Ben's desk. "I didn't mean to kill the mood, old chap," Hamilton says, and that in itself is enough to have Ben's head whipping back up to stare because never in his life has he heard Hamilton refer to anyone as _old chap._ Hamilton continues, unperturbed by Ben’s sudden incredulity, and when Hamilton speaks there’s all the tiredness in it that Ben feels. "It's simply a matter of tiredness, you understand. Downhill battles, and the like."  
  
And Ben does. He really does understand.  
  
There's a pause. "Come now, then," Hamilton says, standing, and smiles down at Ben again, eyes crinkling in their corners. "Come with me. _Notre cher Marquis_ has broken out the better Madeira, and the rest of us are quite at ease. Rest your pen just as you rest your sword, Tallmadge. If only for tonight." He offers Ben his hand.  
  
Ben sighs. Rubs at his eyes and doesn't care that Hamilton sees.  
  
The war is far from over. The downhill battle is steep, so steep Ben fears he'll tumble all the way to the bottom of the ravine and won’t be able to rise, won’t be able to help Caleb or Abe or Anna or Culper Junior; he fears he’ll tumble all the way down the hill into his grave and he’ll be so tired that he’ll simply decide to sleep there forever. 

Yorktown is over. There’s only so much more to do, so much that Ben can feasibly accomplish with how exhausted he is.   
  
...But there’s Hamilton. There’s always been Hamilton. Everyone’s right hand man.   
  
Ben sighs. Rubs at his eyes.   
  
Then he sets down his pen and takes Alexander's hand.

 


	2. chasing away shivers and shakes

"Ben," says John tiredly. "Lie down, or I swear to God I'll force you down here myself."  
  
"Pulling rank is rude," Alexander murmurs from where his nose is pressed to the side of John's neck.   
  
Ben hesitates still, fingers twitching with all the forms he needs to write and all the things he has to do. Washington is expecting the rest of the reports on his desk come morning. He expects Ben to be completely done with them. He---   
  
"I hear your mind moving from where I am, _mon ami,_ " Lafayette says sleepily. "Come down here. It is cold and we are tired."   
  
Ben hesitates only a moment more before he relents, awkwardly shrugging out of his boots and coat and shivering as the chill of the room hits him, sticks icy fingers down his shirt to make way for a draft. He shudders, hunches his shoulders, and goes to his knees. Lafayette deftly grabs Ben about the shoulders and pulls him downwards, nestling Ben between John and himself. Though startled, the gasp that erupts from Ben's mouth is more for the warmth of the spot than the surprise of the movement, and he can't help himself as he curls up between the two of them.   
  
Alexander clumsily reaches over and lays his hand against Ben's face. "Your nose is cold!" He hisses angrily, but even still reaches down to take Ben's icy fingers into his own warmer ones. "God, your _hands_ , Tallmadge, what are you _doing,_ are you _fond_ of appendages or just that negligent of your own health _\---_ "   
  
Ben can't help the full bodied shudder that wrecks him as a blanket, warmed from being so near the coals, is swept over him and tucked around him, and then shudders again as Lafayette---skin like a furnace---draws Ben's back to his chest and successfully spoons him. He’s too cold and stiff to protest the treatment.   
  
"You see?" Lafayette says, sounding far too pleased with himself (or perhaps just with Ben’s uncharacteristic compliance). "Warmer, happier, _oui?"_   
  
Ben rolls his eyes but digs his cheek and chin and nose into John's ribcage, nestling his head under John's arm because the cold strips him of all shame. "M'gettin' up in a minute," he says. "M'jus' gettin' warm."   
  
"Of course," John agrees, and draws him closer, and Ben goes without complaint, hands held in Hamilton's, back warmed against Lafayette's chest, the achy chill on his bones, little by little, being soothed away.

**x**

Ben's breathing evens out.  
  
" _Finally_ ," Alexander grumbles, grumpy for the cold, but his thumb is tenderly sliding across the back of Ben's hand, giving him away. Lafayette peers over the curve of Ben's shoulder to look at his face, still smushed into John's ribs, and sighs.   
  
"Yes," John answers, and tries to ignore Ben's ice cold nose against his skin, concentrating on warm huff of Ben's breath instead. "He's out _cold_."   
  
"That was awful," Alexander says instantly, utterly deadpan. "The worst. I’m ashamed to be your friend. I thought you were cleverer than that, John."   
  
"Would you believe me if I said I didn't mean it?"   
  
Alexander's snort is answer enough, but it's sleep-addled this time. Alexander has been awake… for less time than Tallmadge has, surely, but for the life of him John can't remember the last time Alexander slept.   
  
John turns to Lafayette and smiles. "Our two little workaholics," he says fondly, one under each arm, and Lafayette buries his face into Ben's hair to hide his laughter as Alexander releases Ben's hand to thump John's arm, shifting as if to extract himself from the warmth of their pile.   
  
"Sorry, Hammie," John apologizes, and reaches up to smooth Ham's hair off his forehead. Hamilton leans into the touch like a cat would a hand, immediately abandoning his (not altogether serious) endeavor to get up in the first place. John hadn’t anticipated Alexander to follow through, anyhow; Alexander is a creature of warmth, Caribbean constitution not yet adjusted to the Colonies’ brutal winters, and far be him to deny the body heat that Lafayette, John, and now Tallmadge are freely offering. If John knows one thing about Hamilton, it’s that he’ll do what it takes to survive---and that includes swallowing his pride, however impossible that may seem.   
  
John keeps up his petting until he finally feels Alexander sink completely into the warmth of his side, and it’s only when Alexander finally does slip off into sleep, breath gently evening out against John’s neck that John allows himself to relax into Ben and Alexander’s combined body heat.

  
"Lafayette," he whispers into the darkness, the coals long since having gone out from the meagre flickers they’d managed to create in the fireplace. His tongue feels too thick for his mouth, warmth cocooning him and sleep beckoning… but he needs to know. No matter how tired his mind or how exhausted his body, he won’t rest properly, not a single moment, unless he receives confirmation that things are… well. That someone’s looking out. "Lafayette… y’ got it?"   
  
Lafayette's sigh is soft, but his hand reaches out and gently takes John's. " _Oui, mon chou,_ " he says softly. "I have it."

It’s all the answer he needs, solid and true, and it’s without further ado that John allows himself to be pulled down into slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historically, the aides all shared sleeping spaces, or else slept on the floor around Washington's bed (which, aside from being adorable, also sounds very uncomfortable. However, it does leave the idea per cuddling / snuggling for warmth 100% more likely, which is the best.)
> 
> thank you so much for reading, i hope you enjoyed, and please leave me a comment on your thoughts!
> 
> -Ro


	3. warding off winter's chill

Ben’s exhausted.

The cold has a way of sapping your strength faster than anything else; it sinks into your bones, coils itself deep in your gut like a block of ice and chills you from the inside out. It’s like nothing Ben’s ever felt, not even when he took his spill into the Delaware River---mostly, he suspects, because he was unconscious for much of the cold he endured then, or else it wouldn’t even be a comparison he’d be making.

That nearly deadly swim clings to him even still, months after it had happened. It had started small: a chill in early autumn or sicknesses a more often occurrence. He hadn’t connected the dots until winter had fully rolled in and Valley Forge’s brutal weather had finally revealed itself.

He’s cold, almost constantly.

It isn’t the type of cold one can easily fix with more layers or less exposed skin or thicker socks, either; it’s an all encompassing cold that seems to begin at his core and which radiates outwards towards his extremities, leaving all efforts to get warm (rubbing fingers together, stomping feet, jogging in place---all those methods that were tried and true, otherwise) fruitless. Sometimes he finds a hot drink or a nice meal will do the trick, but those occasions are few and far between and usually preceded by more mild weather anyway.

And the weather today could be described as anything but. Snow squalls have haunted the Continental camp all week, illness spreading like wildfire thanks to the added chill. And, of course, the squalls have turned out to be particularly relentless today simply due to all the work Ben had found himself having to do outdoors (mainly running between his office and Sackett’s tent, frustratingly enough, but he couldn’t seem to remember any of the paperwork he’d needed until he’d needed it today).

A headache pounds behind Ben’s eyes at the thought, and he presses his knuckles into his sockets as hard as he dares in an attempt to alleviate some of the pain. His body aches from how tired he is, joints creaking stiffly with every movement (thanks to the unfailing chill), and he wants nothing more than to curl up on his bedroll near the fire and sleep for a few decades. Of course, he’ll be retiring late tonight; the setback of forgetting documents today had been enough to delay him a good amount in the completion of paperwork concerning both the spy ring and Congress, and Ben… well. Washington has made very clear that he believes Ben incapable of getting the job done; has impressed upon Ben the severity of his judgement rather effectively. Ben would much rather pull another late night than be subjected to Washington’s disapproval---or worse: Washington’s mistrust.

Still, even for all of that logic, Ben has to purposefully wrench himself away from the staircase he’s been subconsciously drifting towards, shuffling unwilling feet to his desk. He feels like he doesn’t have the energy to pick them completely up off the floor, much less the energy to plow through backed up paperwork---but if he doesn’t start now, he’ll never finish. Even with him starting now, it’s likely he’ll have to work through dinner to make a proper dent.

(Congress… has been adamant about the Continental Army attacking the British forces in their own winter camp---which, apart from being an absolutely imbecilic idea, also defies the honorific rules of warfare. The Continental Army may use guerrilla tactics that go against propriety, but they still obey the laws of war---if not for honor, then for strategy. It’s foolish to attempt an attack on the British right now, and all the military staff know so. Congress, however, is relentless, and has penned letters to nearly all of Washington’s office staff---focusing, delightfully, on Washington’s Head of Intelligence. No matter how many replies Ben pens in the negative ( _To Whom it May Concern: I apologize, but we are unable to tactfully engage in any conflict with the British forces, wintry or otherwise, at this time without the supplies requested by Col. Hamilton a fortnight ago that are necessary to the survival of our own army…)_ Congress insistently argues their point.

It’s exhausting work---much more, it’s _useless_ work. At least when he’s working on documentation for the spy ring (new codes, reports, intel, and base movements within New York are, as of right now, the priority) he feels like he’s accomplishing something. He’s been hired for that work; that’s the work he’s meant to do. His position isn’t intended to---answer the whims of every Congressman who believes he’ll be the one who sways Washington’s Head of Intelligence into conceding an attack on the British (though of course, Congress can’t know that, which is the sole reason for Ben’s compliance in responding at this point. He’ll not jeopardize the sanctity of the ring simply because he’s tired of Congressmen nagging him like particularly unrelenting nannies).

He works late into the afternoon---though for all he tries, he struggles to concentrate. His headache has gotten exponentially worse since he’s begun replying to the mass of letters, and when he switches to the work regarding the spy ring, logistics escape him. The clock strikes five in the evening, and Ben sits at his desk with barely a dent in his paperwork and a chunk missing from his pride.

Traitorously, he finds himself considering laying down for a while. His hands are stiff from holding the quill his fingers are cold. He’s chilly. It’s drafty in the tiny room that’s been delegated as his office (the only desk in here along his is Hamilton’s, a stark contrast to the six desk office room next door. Hamilton is only one trusted enough to be informed of the spy ring thanks to Mulligan’s involvement, but Washington seems to enjoy his influence---more than he enjoys Ben’s, anyhow). And if it weren’t for this headache, he would be able to fly through the paperwork.

… Maybe lying down isn’t such a bad idea after all.  
  
Ben shifts where he sits, and for the first time realizes his legs are numb.

For some reason, this is the last straw, and Ben pushes back from his desk with a huff of breath that’s just short of being a shaky exhale. His body trembles when he stands, and it takes him a moment to get himself oriented; spots momentarily dance in his vision, and pins and needles begin to prickle in his legs.

Without thought, he begins to shuffle to the bedroom, every step feeling heavier than the last. He’ll only sleep until dinner; that’s an hour. That’s fair. An hour to collect himself, to rest a little, to take a break from staring at the same rephrased arguments and re-framed logistics---that will be enough.

He reaches the bedroom; a fire hasn’t been started, but that’s alright. Ben has plenty of practice, and he needs only to let one burn low enough that it will go out by the time he’s done. His hands shake as he strikes the flame, but he’s so relieved by the warmth that instantly springs from the fireplace that it doesn’t even matter. He drags his bedroll over to the spot directly in front of the hearth, gingerly flops down into it, and eases into sleep as the heat begins to chase away some of the chill.

 

**x**

 

Tallmadge isn’t at dinner.

Tilghman isn’t _worried_ , necessarily; it’s not a rarity that Tallmadge is often missing from the table, usually due to some field work or an emergency that’s just cropped up, and for all of Washington’s apparent disapproval he has yet to confront Tallmadge about it. Which, Tench supposes, is fair; it isn’t as if a Head of Intelligence can control when field work needs to be done or when emergencies occur, but Tench does think it strange that for a man so adamant about spending time with his so-called military family, Washington seems relatively unbothered by Tallmadge’s absence.

And Tench himself wouldn’t worry himself with Tallmadge’s empty seat at the table, either, if not for the fact that he’d seen Tallmadge at his desk an hour beforehand.

Tallmadge has gained himself a notorious reputation as a man who works almost as much as Hamilton, but where Hamilton has learned self preservation, Tallmadge has _not_. Hamilton is more than happy to run himself into the ground---but he knows the ground is his limit. He’s more than aware that when he does so, rest is required to survive; recuperation is required to recharge. Tallmadge, on the other hand, seems to think his limit is death, as Tench can’t conceive any other possible reason for him working himself to Hell and back. He doesn’t rest, barely eats when he does sit with them. He doesn’t seem to stop working; doesn’t seem to stop _thinking_.

It had been the very reason the aides hadn’t been as comradely with Tallmadge as they were among themselves; Tallmadge is, put simply, somewhat short fused and fussy when it comes to work, and had seemed only interested in professional relationships with the rest of them---which had been perfectly acceptable. The aides had extended invitations to him as a courtesy, but he made his position very clear by never accepting--- at least, that was how it had seemed until they’d learned that Tallmadge really was just a workaholic who didn’t know when to quit before he killed himself.  
  
(Of course, that has all since changed, and Tench finds himself ardently enjoying Tallmadge’s company and wit when he sees fit to offer them, but the point stands.)

And Tallmadge can, obviously, take care of himself. He’s a grown man who is more than capable of handling situations on his own, through his own judgement. Tench is a... concerned friend, is all, in the way any other friend may notice one of their companions absent from dinner and be mildly concerned.

… Still. Best to check, just to be sure. Tench is the oldest, after all; he figures it’s the least he can do. He isn’t unfamiliar with checking up on those younger than him thanks to being the keeper of his many siblings, and it’s solely to assuage his own concerned conscience. It’s more than likely Tallmadge simply went to visit that Sackett fellow he’s so fond of, or else rushed out to deal with an intel emergency of some kind.

After dinner has ended, Tench wanders past Tallmadge’s empty desk, pops a head into the office. Hamilton, of course, is back at his own workstation, and doesn’t even notice when Tench peers inside the room. If Tallmadge isn’t in his office, then surely he’s out doing something, so Tench puts it from his mind as best he can and goes back to his own forms.

It isn’t until his pipe has completely run out of tobacco that Tench decides to break for the night, glancing over at the clock. A quarter to ten; he can justifiably crawl into bed, can’t he? The other aides are working still, but it isn’t uncommon that one of them retires earlier before the others (in fact, it’s what kick-starts the others into retiring in the first place), so Tench pushes up from his seat and laughs good-naturedly when the others tease him about being old and makes his way up the steps to the bedroom.

It’s not as dark as he had been expecting and he blinks a little, eyes narrowing at the dim light coming from the fireplace. A fire, no doubt---but surely not from this morning; the servants wouldn’t be so negligent, would they?

Before he can panic over the idea that the fire has been left unattended all day, his eyes fall to a prone figure curled near the hearth, so shadowed that Tench would have missed it if not for the beat his heart skipped. And he has a very bad feeling, all of a sudden, about Tallmadge’s ability to take care of himself.  
  
Creeping over, Tench kneels beside the fire and deflates when the figure’s face comes into view.

It’s Tallmadge. Because of course it’s Tallmadge.

Is this where Tallmadge has been, then? Had he retired halfway through the day, too exhausted to even fathom working? Had he curled up beside the fire because he was chilled to the point his fingers were numb? Is he---

The thought strikes Tench cold, and ice spreads through him like an egg was just cracked over his head.

Illness has been spreading around the camp like wildfire. Typhus, pneumonia- _\--smallpox and dysentery._ It’s killed a countless amount of people; has made a sizable dent in their numbers. There’s a pile of bodies outside waiting to be burned. It’s rare that people enter the medical tents from them and make it back out breathing.

If Tallmadge is ill...

Wetting his lips, Tench throws caution to the wind and reaches out to grasp at Tallmadge’s blanketed shoulder. He shakes it. “Tallmadge,” he calls, “wake up.” Tallmadge doesn’t so much as twitch. “Tallmadge,” he tries again, firmer. He shakes harder, urgency growing, panic held at bay only by the skin of his teeth. _“Wake up.”_

A muffled grunt reaches Tench’s ears, a wonderful sound, and he moves to stoke the coals of the fire, adding a log and waiting until it catches to turn his attention back to Ben. He’s curled on his side, hunched in on himself to keep warm, and in the renewed light he looks pale and drawn. He shudders as the heat hits him, and clumsily inches himself closer to the hearth.

Tench shakes him again, panic simmering. “ _Benjamin._ ”

Ben finally cracks his eyes open, grunting again in dismay at being disturbed. Tench bares his teeth in the parody of a smile, heart beating like a rabbit’s. “Sorry. I needed to make sure you would wake.” His hand wanders to Tallmadge’s forehead in the practiced movement of one who has experience caring for the sick, but when he presses his palm to Ben’s skin, it comes away cool and dry.  
  
Tench blinks.

He peers at Tallmadge’s face, weary in the light but already smoothed back out into sleep, and feels a pang somewhere deep in his chest. He’s not ill---just exhausted. Just exhausted and cold, and so _young_.

It strikes Tench, at odd times, that he’s one of the oldest of the aides. Tench is thirty three; Tallmadge is _twenty four._ He’s too young to look so worn; too young to be so drained. That spill into the Delaware sapped him of what seems like years of his life; looking at him now, pale and shivering under covers as close as he can be to the fire, it’s almost _painfully_ apparent how enervated this war has rendered him. An urge, beaten down, pulls at Tench irresistibly.

He’s the oldest of his siblings.

He unravels his bedroll and prepares for bed, sliding down to lie as close as he can beside Tallmadge. He presses his chest to Tallmadge’s back so that they’re flush; Tallmadge shudders and burrows unconsciously into Tench’s warmth, and Tench spares as much of his blanket as he can to throw it over the both of them.

Tallmadge won’t be cold tonight; of that, Tench is sure. The other aides will creep upstairs, following Tench’s lead, and will huddle around the fire and bundle close to each other to ward off the winter’s chill, lending each other body heat as he lends his to Tallmadge now.

And for now, at least once, Tallmadge will have been at the center of the pile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (did i not say there would be more snuggles)
> 
> Honestly, the idea that Ben is cold and sick all the time doesn't, to me at least, seem a far off one, especially considering how he fell into the Delaware River in the dead of winter and had pneumonia for a good while. Ben and illness is a relatively common theme among these ideas tbh
> 
> SPEAKING of these ideas, we ARE accepting prompts, so if you happen to have any you'd like to see written please leave it in the comments below and I'd be happy to write them for you !! thank you so much for reading, i hope you enjoyed !!
> 
> -Ro


	4. cold comforts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George lies awake, staring at the ceiling he has long since memorized, grasping at sleep that, as it has for the past hour, remains elusive to him. Around him, the customary sounds of slumbering people are loud in the otherwise silent room; breaths are heavy, snores are prominent, shuffles are occasional. The chatter of something moving, a near constant noise, only serves to set George’s teeth on edge.

George lies awake, staring at the ceiling he has long since memorized, grasping at sleep that, as it has for the past hour, remains elusive to him. Around him, the customary sounds of slumbering people are loud in the otherwise silent room; breaths are heavy, snores are prominent, shuffles are occasional. The chatter of something moving, a near constant noise, only serves to set George’s teeth on edge.  
  
Sharing a sleeping space with several persons for a fortnight is oft the cause of George's dwindling patience. He and his brother had, when necessary, shared sleeping quarters, usually due to travel - but even if they hadn’t George's time serving has eradicated any expectation for his bunkmates anyway.   
  
But still. A man can only take so much.   
  
"What," George grits aloud after another long stretch of time has gone by, "is that infernal clacking?"  
  
The noise chatters on.  
  
As predicted, one of his aides on the floor is awake, and the answer comes only a few moments later from Meade.  "...That would be Tallmadge's teeth chattering, sir."

...Of course it is.

They don’t have much here in Morristown; provisions are low, particularly where food and blankets are concerned, and the bedrolls that his aides do have are threadbare from travel and years of use. Little reprieve has been offered to their clothing, coats, socks, and bedding, and it shows in the way his aides huddle close to the fireplace for warmth when they sleep on the floors, or else end up clumped together in a mass that, George assumes, provides more collective body heat than sleeping alone would.

Still - if Tallmadge is cold, he must rectify his own issue. One cannot simply lay there inconveniencing others without at least attempting to fix the problem, especially regarding the rest of half of Washington’s office staff. If both Meade and George have been denied sleep due to the noise, then it’s likely others are having trouble ignoring it as well.  
  
So, taking a deep breath, George finally decides that enough is enough. "Major Tallmadge," he says, and when he receives no response repeats himself more firmly. "Major. Tallmadge."   
  
There's a rustling on the floor, but the clacking doesn't stop. From where he's positioned, George can see the top of someone’s dark head move across the floor; can hear the gentle scraping sound of a bedroll being dragged. The clacking doesn't so much as falter, and George waits several beats to see if Tallmadge has finally managed to get himself under control. When that proves not to be so, he grits his teeth and speaks again.   
  
_ "Major Tallmadge, _ if you cannot - " 

“A moment, sir,” Tilghman’s hushed voice comes then from somewhere near the end of the bed, “I’m just - shifting about a bit, sir. Should be quiet in a moment.”

“I thought Meade said it was Tallmadge’s teeth.”

“Oh, it is,” Tilghman assures. The sound of rustling blankets is aggravating, the steady chatter of teeth doing nothing to ease the irritation. 

George’s voice is clipped. _ "Tilghman." _ __  
  
“He's cold, sir, and dead asleep. There's really not much else to be done.”

With a contentious huff, George sits upright, squinting in the dim light provided by coals to look at the aides sprawled around him. They’re huddled together, as he thought they’d be; two or three men to a pile, four separate piles clustered around his bed. Eyes adjusting, he just makes out the shine of Tallmadge’s blonde hair in the light - pulled closer, it seems, to Tilghman and McHenry from the outermost edges of the whole jumble. Blearily, George recalls Tallmadge shuffling in some hours ago, long past the time the rest of them had retired. It wouldn’t be uncharacteristic of him to isolate himself, and George scowls a little at the foolishness of the thought.

Still: the chattering of Tallmadge’s teeth continues, and George’s patience runs thin.

“Wake him. Perhaps he’ll warm better then, and can fall asleep without this incessant noise.”   
  
Tilghman audibly sighs. "Forgive me for speaking out of turn, sir, but I don't believe that would solve the problem. A cold man's a cold man, and Tallmadge retired long after we did. Likely, he was finishing reports, and truth be told, Your Excellency, I don’t reckon he’d be well rested if we woke him now simply to stop him from doing something out of his control.”

A true enough statement; George has enough experience with cold to know that chattering teeth is a reflex that can’t be helped. And still, for even that, he finds himself unable to dismiss how irked he is, a grouchiness stemming from a combination of the cold and how overworked they all are.

Before he can truly work himself up to a firmer command, however, the clack of teeth tapers off.

Tilghman seems to be holding his breath. The air is thick with something akin to tension, though George is too tired to possibly attempt to discern what it is. Instead, he lies down, closes his eyes, and gradually allows himself to doze off in the relative silence of a room packed with people.

 

**x**

 

He wakes again, hours later in the early morning, to a familiar noise. This time, however, he’s able to truly make out the forms of those surrounding Tallmadge on the floor thanks to the pre-dawn light filtering in through the window. The image is in stark contrast to the one George imagined Tallmadge to be in earlier that same night; instead of isolated, Benjamin is now closer to the middle of the heap, nestled between McHenry and Tilghman (who are bracketed by Lafayette and Meade, respectively). Having drifted closer during the night once the fireplace had ceased providing enough heat, all of them are bundled together, burrowed against one another for warmth. 

George, once again, lies awake for a long while and stares at the scene before him. Sleep eludes him, now, due to the cold of his own bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i warned u i promise u i warned u about the snuggles they're intense and often
> 
> Cassie and I have discussed at length the differences between Hamilton-GWash and TURN-GWash, and I felt like TURN!GWash worked better for the situation here. If he seems a little cruel, it's because I really went SOLIDLY for TURN's depiction of George, if that makes sense? Whereas Cassie and I tend to try to mix it up with Hamilton's characterization of Washington. (Historically, Washington frickin. played catch with aides when it was nice out so like. idk how much of TURN's Wash is really true to form, but it worked here, so).
> 
> also !! I promise that the requested Tallmadge Whump is on the way (in spades, we have it in SPADES)! Real life got wonky for a little while on my end (idk about Cassie's) but I will definitely try to update sooner from here on out ! That said, requests and prompts are appreciated to help spur me along !
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed, and please leave me a comment on your thoughts!
> 
> P.S. Hit us up on tumblr at thcgardcn.tumblr.com to see updates, new fics, and meta~
> 
> -Ro


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